In my mind’s eye the colour of spring is tender: pink and white and violet, and dimpled daffodil yellow; diaphanous blue; soft, lush green; all steeped in warm, lemon honey sunshine. But that is not often the reality of spring, particularly in Christchurch where, in September, the average sunshine hours per day number 5.5.

No, the colour of spring is more nuanced than my mind’s eye would have it. It is frequently overcast with grey,

Spring Grey

and dim drizzle, (skip to the end of the video if you are interested in the cherry blossom)

and shaded skies.

Spring under shaded sky

But for all that my spring is not mental picture-perfect, I still love it. And I will take it any way it comes.

I love spring however it is served; but I don’t eat daffodils ~ they’re poisonous ~ just saying ;).

I had a little peony
Nothing would it bear
But a tiny blossom
every other year……

and even that was after many years of bearing nothing at all.

But this year my peony, which is at least a decade old, decided it was time to show me what it could really do. No longer is it a one trick p(e)ony …..

Look what I can do! I have more than one trick up my leaves.

And in the spirit of ‘anything you (peony) can do, I can do better’… neither am I , just a one trick pony !

Because after umpteen years at the computer I have finally learned how to make a video.

Making the video, and daring to publish it, would not have been possible without the support and encouragement and inspiration I receive from my wonderful WordPress community. My heartfelt thanks to you all for being with me on my WordPress journey. I completed my third year this week.

‘I love to tell the story; ’tis pleasant to repeat What seems, each time I tell it, more wonderfully sweet.’ ~ ( Katherine Hankey, 1866 )

Dawdling at the kitchen window this morning,

Kitchen reflections

I reflected on the tradition of Sunday story telling that was part of my younger years. When I was little, the early hours of Sunday morning were filled by listening to Story Time/Children’s Hour on the radio. The same stories were repeated endlessly. Yet I was not bothered by the repetition. It was good to hear old favourites over and over. Once Story Time and breakfast time were finished, we were shepherded off to Sunday School where, once again, we listened to stories; stories that had been told, and retold, for thousands of years.

We listened to those stories, we acted them out, we coloured them in, and we sang them, too. Remember this one? Tell me the old, old story.

Thinking about Sundays and stories reminded me that I have a story to tell. It’s not new. You have heard most of it before; it’s tall but true, as well as sweet and ‘pleasant to repeat’.

It goes like this.

In the beginning there was Britt , of the beautiful smile and the blue beret.

and the Kindle that Gallivanta bought to read the book that Britt wrote,

The challenge of a new style of reading

which turned out to be a game changer in Gallivanta’s life, and prompted her to be a little sassy and issue a playful challenge to Britt, of the beautiful smile and the blue beret. The challenge: to locate a totem pole by Chief Lelooska somewhere in Portland, the replica of which stood 7,000 miles away, here, at Christchurch Airport, in New Zealand.

And Britt, being much like one of the determined women in her Book, took up Gallivanta’s challenge and, with a few choice words like “Gallivanta, you stinker”, went on a Totem Pole Quest in Portland, Oregon.

Was she successful? You bet. For two months Britt quested and queried and questioned and, finally, she found Chief Lelooska’s Totem Pole, recently restored and reinstalled, at Oregon Zoo. It was a beautiful sight to behold.

Chief Lelooska’s Totem Pole, Oregon Zoo, Portland, 2014

The End, but not quite…..if you would like to read more about Britt’s Totem Pole quest and the story of the Totem Pole itself, click here and follow the links.

Story telling over, it’s back to more dawdling for me,

Gather round little blossoms and listen to my tales

and wondering why the little yellow flower of the sharp tasting rocket is so sweetly scented. Must be a story in that. 🙂

By the way, for the child in all of us, don’t forget that Story Time is still a regular feature on Radio New Zealand. Have a listen.

Endnote:

The photos of Britt at the Zoo and of Chief Lelooska’s Totem Pole at the Oregon Zoo are used with kind permission from Britt. Please do not copy or use them without her consent.

At this time of the year millions around the world are preparing for the triduum of Allhallowtide, which encompasses All Hallows’ Eve (Halloween), All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day. For many the preparations will include stocking up on candles for the rituals and traditions that involve candlelight.

Millions more have begun another celebration, today, which also requires light; light to vanquish darkness and evil and despair. This celebration is the annual, five-day festival of lights, namely, Diwali.

Having grown up in Fiji, where Diwali has long been an honoured occasion (and now a public holiday), I have a love for Diwali which outstrips any affection I have for Allhallowtide. Seeing the houses decorated with beautiful Diwali lights was a yearly highlight of my childhood.

So, this week, in accordance with my family’s customs, I will light a Diwali candle (candles if I can find more than one).

Light a candle

I will listen again to the gentle singing words of Rabindranath Tagore’s Invocation to Diwali

and consider the significance of Diwali, so eloquently expressed here: “The night is black. Kindle the lamp of love with thy life and devotion.” (Rabindranath Tagore)

Until night falls, however, I will keep watch with the dear, little lights that are ever present , and need no darkness to make them shine.

Little Charlie, a new (de) light to brighten our lives

Daisy diya

A golden glow

Rocket sparkler

Candelabra; shining light on the shadows

And, if I can organize myself sufficiently well, I may even make a special sweet treat for Diwali; a rhubarb and apple crumble with freshly picked rhubarb from my garden.

Join me, if you will, in lighting a candle, for the night is black, and we need all the light we can get. Happy Diwali and may the light of the lamp burn brightly in all our hearts.

A landscape of well-defined boundaries, as well as soft, slippery edges, fluidity and possibility.

Defined Boundaries

Fluidity

A landscape that reveals both the neat and the orderly, the tidy rows of heritage,

Orderly family trees

and the more common, impenetrable thickets of entwined limbs and leaves.

Impenetrable thickets

A landscape replete with the swathes and layerings of old growth and new.

Old and New in Kaiapoi Domain

And let’s not forget the twists and turns which lead to small surprises and unexpected delights.

A tiny surprise. Can you/ewe see me?

And, yes, who might you/ewe be?

Unexpected outcomes; do you know where ewe came from?

Yes, family history is embedded in the lay of the land,

The landscape of ancestry

entrenched, without doubt, in terra firma;

or so it seems, until the land falls away, alters and shifts and, suddenly, one is all at sea.

Amelia Sims, the scow built and named for my great great grandmother, Amelia Sims, housekeeper Kaiapoi, formerly of the Isle of Wight

Topsail schooner, “Amelia Sims,” (120 ft., 98 tons) at old wharf, Motueka, about 1903. Built in Australia it reached the home port—Kaiapoi—in 1901 and though having an auxiliary screw for berthing purposes sail was its chief means of propulsion. In moderate weather “Amelia Sims” would carry ten or twelve sails and be a worthy sight in deep water. —Photo by courtesy of Miss Nina Moffatt, Motueka.http://nzetc.victoria.ac.nz/tm/scholarly/tei-NHSJ02_06-t1-body1-d4.html

Gallivanting Note

This post came about following a little jaunt in the countryside at the weekend. I traced some family history, found more questions than answers, and discovered, to my great surprise, that my great great grandmother’s second husband built her a ship, the Amelia Sims which was one of the fleet of sturdy scows which played an important role in New Zealand’s early transport industry.

I’ve been gallivanting; travelling across the Plains, from north to south and back again. I went to Timaru, a port city about 162km from Christchurch. I haven’t been that way in more than 3 years. It’s not very far, in terms of time or distance, but the earthquakes and their aftermath had somehow imprisoned me within the confines of my own city.

Last Thursday I broke free, and, in my trusty little Toyota Echo, I traced the old, familiar route across the wide open spaces; the fields to left and right, the snow topped mountains ever westward, the endless blue of sky above; the rivers big and little and, all along the wayside, the litany of names, the signs of our settlement, our marks upon the land….Templeton, Rolleston, Burnham, Northwood, Bankside, Rakaia, Chertsey, Ashburton, Tinwald, Hinds, Rangitata, Orari, Temuka and so many more…until I met the rolling hills that end the Plains, and the city that sits upon their folds; my destination, Timaru.

View from Timaru

Timaru is one of my homes away from home,

Home away from Home; a place of shelter

mainly because my uncle and his family have lived there for many years and are always ready to offer generous hospitality to me and my loved ones. Recently I discovered another reason to feel bonded to Timaru. It was the initial place of residence for the Scottish side of my family when they came to New Zealand in the mid 1870s. It was also the site of our first birthing in New Zealand; from the paternal side of the family tree, that is. A momentous occasion, perhaps, that first birthing, or, more realistically, just another fact of life for a busy settler-wife to contend with. Whatever the case, young James arrived in the land of his parents’ choice, on 26 June 1877, followed, not long after, by his twin brother, Joseph.

Years later, a cemetery entry, which is probably that of my great-uncle, records James as a native of Scotland, despite being born and having spent most of his life in New Zealand.

And, therein, lies the rub; which land claims us? The one we are born to, the one we live in, the one we die in, the one we feel is home, that we feel in our heart, the one we left behind, the one we long for, the one we choose, or don’t choose, the one that loves and protects us, or the one that legally bind us? Or the one that refuses to let us go?

My son, through circumstances entirely outside his control, was born in the US. His birthplace was happenstance; his first landfall, like that of his great great uncle, was an accident of birth. For the greater part of his life he has lived in New Zealand; considers himself a New Zealander and holds, and chooses to hold, New Zealand citizenship. Yet, like a dog unwilling to relinquish its bone, America, the land of his birth, holds on to him, and millions of others like him, whose only wish is to live freely, quietly and privately in the country of their own choice. America does this via the appalling effrontery of FATCA, the Foreign Account Tax Compliance Act which compels governments worldwide to hand over, to the IRS, the personal financial information of anyone (or institution) with Born in America next to their name. Supposedly this measure is aimed at preventing losses to the US economy through tax evasion. Perhaps it will, but does catching the tax cheats really require the Government of America to force minion foreign Governments to trawl the electronic trail of the US diaspora for wicked tax evaders and, in the dragnet-process, mangle the innocents abroad and the accidental Americans?

My ancestors traversed thousands of miles of unruly ocean to reach New Zealand. They wanted to escape the restrictions of old societies and economies. They came looking for newer, better ways to live. Most people who settled in the US travelled long, arduous routes to get there, too. They wanted to be free of old ways, old tyrannies, old politics. When I look at power-mongering acts like FATCA, I wonder if any of us have travelled very far at all.